


Inverted

by AngeDeLumiere



Category: Finder no Hyouteki | Finder Series
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-09
Updated: 2016-09-09
Packaged: 2018-08-14 01:58:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7994473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AngeDeLumiere/pseuds/AngeDeLumiere
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He kept a little black book in a drawer beside his bed, filled with the names of every major player in Tokyo, and their respective weaknesses. He had blackmail on all of them––all but one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Inverted

One.

The black plastic of his camera glinted under the flickering fluorescent lights. He was in a dodgy sort of place, a run down pub with dirty pool tables and knocked out drunks, passed out on the bar. He wished he had the money, or the clout, to meet in upscale restaurants or hotels. Anywhere that didn’t smell like venereal disease when you walked in. But he didn’t––he didn’t even always have enough money for rent. So his meetings were in seedy bars and back alleys between the whores. It was quick and grimy, but it got the job done. 

As soon as Takaba walked in, two men in dark suits approached. It was all he could do to not roll his eyes. Bodyguards. He hated them. All the criminals thought they were so badass, talking like they alone controlled Japan, and then cowering behind big men. 

“Good evening, gentlemen,” Takaba stopped, arms out to his sides so that they could see that he was unarmed. Still, they spun him, shoving him against the wall and frisking him. They found nothing but his camera and the file. That was all the photojournalist had on him. He didn’t carry a gun or any weapon, nor would he ever. He was not a criminal; he just blackmailed them. 

“Oshishi-sama is waiting for you,” the tall one who looked especially dumb gestured toward the back room. Takaba was pretty sure that hookers took clients there for a cheap romp. The journalist rolled his eyes. The idiot politician was still using his “street name”, pretending that he was someone else despite Takaba having sent the first damning photo to the Parliament building. 

“Thanks,” he nodded to his unwanted escort. They opened the door, bowing to the man inside. 

“That will be all,” the fat, balding man sat on a busted up couch. Takaba’s lips curled. Yeah, hookers had definitely broken that couch, but it didn’t seem to faze the man sitting on its cum soaked pillows. 

The goons shifted, glancing at Takaba uncertainly. Nevertheless, they shut the door, leaving the reporter alone with “Oshishi-sama”. As soon as the door clicked shut, he glared at Takaba. “Sit.”

The photographer gland at the rickety wooden chair. A coiled spring poked out of the cushion. He winced. That was going to hurt his ass. 

“Councilman Akihime,” Takaba took the seat nonetheless. “Thanks for meeting me on such short notice.” It was best to begin politely. His mother always said the manners maketh the man, and if he was going to rub elbows with the scourge of the underworld, he would be gentlemanly. 

The odiferous man snarled, “You didn’t give me much choice. Sending those doctored photos to my office––“

“Please,” Takaba held up his hand, stopping the Diet member’s faked outrage. “Akahime-san, we both know that they aren’t fake. In fact,” he tossed the file onto the wobbly table. The photographs spilled out, dramatic and damning. “I have several rolls of film proving that you like to be fucked by teenaged boys.”

“How dare you insinuate that I would ever lower myself to such degradation!” Akahime roared. He tried to sound terrifying, make himself larger like a cornered animal. It only made him seem even more pathetic. 

“I’m not saying anything,” Takaba shrugged as he gestured to the glossy pictures of Akahime ass up, gagged and plowed by a male prostitute. The kid didn’t look older than fifteen. “The pictures do. And to be honest, I don’t really care what you do to get your rocks off. Everybody has their thing. Your wife, and her very rich parents––now they may not have the same attitude about it.”

Akahime married Hoshino Rangiku, a snobby woman from old money. She was the only child, set to inherit nearly a billion yen. The entire family was very conservative, going beyond traditional, and would sever an ties that blemished their pristine image. Unfortunately for Akahime, he signed a prenup that prevented him from getting a single yen should they divorce. 

The man’s jaundiced eyes widened at Takaba’s implications. “I’ll kill you right here,” he pulled out a heavy looking gun. “No one will question the body of two-bit reporter found on whore row.”

The first time he had a gun pointed at him, Takaba had been terrified. His blood had pounded in his ears, his heart stopped and terror froze his soul. Now, it was so blasé that he was almost disappointed if he didn’t see one of the illegal weapons. “Go ahead,” he tossed a pale hand in the air. “Everybody does this. But no one follows through. You wanna know why? Because I’m not stupid.

“I’m not the only person who had a copy of these. And should I turn up dead, it’s all going to come out.” Takaba leaned forward, limpid eyes smug. “All. Of. It.”

Akahime pulled back the safety. “No just what I have on you, but what I have on the rest of you scumbag criminals. And there are people, who are much more powerful than you, that will be angry about that. Angry enough that they all will figure out who opened the floodgates, and come after you with a vengeance,” Takaba snarled, his teeth snapping like a wolf’s.   
Akahime’s arm wavered, the gun trembling in his hand. Terror crashed over his face in waves as he imagined the horrors that would be wreaked upon them. “You could be lying,” his voice was barely more than a whisper. Triumph coursed through the photographer because he knew that Akahime was his. The whisper meant that he believed every word Takaba uttered. 

“You knew it was me the moment you opened the photos, because you had heard the rumors. Criminals talk more than tabloids, and they are talking about me!”

The gun clattered tot he ground. “What do you want?” Akahime’s shoulders slumped sod reply that they almost touched his knees. “Money?”

“Keep your money,” the photographer looked so repulsed by the idea of a bribe that the councilman was stunned. “I don’t intend to profit off this little meeting.”

“Then what?”

“I want you to vote yes for PR-229 in three days,” Takaba told him. 

Akahime stuttered, “My constituents–“”

“––Would rather spend their tax dollars on subsidies rather than see their councilman besmirched by a sex scandal. Your rich friends who bought you your seat in the Diet can afford to take of care of the poor,” interjected the photographer. 

“Even with my vote, the bill won’t pass,” Akahime protested. “It’s been rejected twice already.” 

Takable knew what that meant. If a bill was vetoed three times, it was pulled from he floor until a new Diet was in session. This was the last chance to get it passed for another fourteen months, and with its failed history, Akahime thought Takaba was wasting his blackmail on a doomed bill. 

“PR-229 needs eleven more votes to pass, and you are number nine.”

“Nine isn’t eleven,” the politician groused. 

“Kamiya and Ishibashi vote with you. They make eleven,” countered Takaba.

Akahime began to sweat large beads that rolled down his wrinkly forehead. “I can try to convince them, but I can’t control how they vote. They may still say no.”

Takaba pushed himself out of the wobbling chair. He was pretty sure on leg was shorter than the others. “I am holding you responsible for this vote, Councilman. Should it not pass, this story will hit the papers, complete with a salacious article that I typed up.”

“I’ll get even or this! You’ll regret the day you threatened me!” Akahime jumped to his feet, hands fisted. “I will make you feel a pain you thought impossible!!”

Takaba sighed. They both knew that it was a bluff to save face. However, the photographer indulged him, like he did all the other government criminals that needed to feel masculine. “You can come after the original photos. You can try to find everything I have on anyone. However, you won’t be able to find them. It’s too well hidden. And if you go after my family, my friends, my job––come after me in any way, and I’ll publish all of it. The criminals will punish you more than I ever could.”

He noted to the councilman, who's knees knocked together quite suddenly. “Have a pleasant night. And keep those,” he pointed tot he glossy photos. “There’s plenty more where they came from.”

Tipping his baseball cap to Akahime’s bodyguards, Takaba stepped out into he dark night, his trench coat billowing theatrically behind him. 

 

*

Another day, another dollar. With a weary sigh, investigative journalist and self-proclaimed adrenaline junkie Takaba Akihito dropped his camera bag on the floor as he kicked off his sneakers. It was a little past seven, and he was exhausted. He spent the day writing an expose on a crooked cop, Taki, who ran a rent scam in a government sponsored tenement. The wasn’t some scumbag that Takaba could blackmail. He took advantage of the single mothers who struggled to feed their children, the elderly who depended on the police to keep them safe, and that made Akihito sick. It took him three months to dredge up the facts and pictures, but he finally had all he needed to write the story. 

No one but his editor knew that he was writing it. Takaba did not want to tell the police, less the word leak to Taki. Takaba didn’t care if the dirty copy fled before the police could arrest him. He just wanted the story out before said cop could think about revenge. 

Anyone he wrote an article on always sought revenge. Again…boring. 

Blinking at the light of the fridge, he scratched his head. Damn, he really needed to get groceries. Graving a bento box and ignoring the cobwebs in his vegetable crisper, he flopped onto the couch. He was glad the the day was finally over. TV on, he shoved the cold rice into his mouth without pausing to chew. 

Field reporter Takanawa Tricia stood in front of the Parliament building, reminding the public what was at stake. If the bill passed, fifteen percent of each worker’s paycheck per pay cycle would subsidize government housing. The poor clamored for better living conditions, regardless of how they got it. The rich loathed to invest in a system where they go no return. And the middle class barely eked by as it was, and could not afford the extra expense. How could they foot the bill for others when they could barely pay their own?

His cellphone blared, jerking him out of the news story, and Takanawa’s perky cleavage. Swelling the lump of cold rice quickly, he choked out, “Hullo?”

“Hey man, sorry for calling so late,” it was Takato, one of his best friends and the father of his godson. “I know you’re probably getting ready for bed.”

“Nah,” he tried to swallow the painful lump in his throat. The rice left frostbite as it slid down his trachea. “I just got home. What’s up?”

Takato chuckled lowly. “You’re biggest fan wanted to tell you goodnight.”

“Aki Aki! Aki!” Grubby hands grabbed for his daddy’s cellphone, pulling it towards his chubby, sticky cheek.

“Little man,” the frostbite in his throat melted when he spoke to his godson.

“Aki! I miss you!” the soon-to-be three year old cheered into the speaker. “I have you present!”

“You got me a present?” Akihito flipped the TV off. Isao always demanded his full attention, and as the doting uncle, Aki was thrilled to give it. “What is it?”

“Birfday!” Isao squealed. 

“Yup, little man. It’s your birthday in a few days.”

“No mine! You birfday!” Isao giggled, delighted that it was his birthday. “Birfday present for Aki!”

Laughing and shaking his head, the photojournalist went along with whatever story his godson wanted to tell him. “It’s my birthday now too?”   
“Share!” Isao protested. The kid was a giver, sharing everything he had. Be it toys with the other kids or his chocolatey snacks, Isao wanted to make sure that everyone had a little bit. The pure selflessness of the two year old endeared him to all. So very few people in the world were genuinely good, but Isao was one of them. “I made you finger paint!”

“Did you do it at preschool?” The boy was a budding artist.   
“Yasssss!”

“I’m sure its as good as the Sistine Chapel,” the photographer told the toddler. “The best finger painting the world has ever seen.”

“Sun!” 

“Alright kiddo,” Takato took the phone from his son. “Go to Mommy. It’s bedtime.”

“Bu-bye Aki!” Isao blew loud kisses against the phone’s speaker, giggling loudly when Takato took the phone from him. Akihito could hear Rinka blowing raspberries on the boy’s tummy, his screeching laughter echoing.

“I think my son loves you more than me,” Takato wedged the phone between his shoulder and ear. “He talks about you all the time.”   
“Well it’s only fair. After all, he’s my favorite person in the whole world. Don’t tell Kou,” the blond laughed. 

“You’re secret is safe with me,” assured the IT professional. “Isao might blab though. He’s developing a habit of repeating whatever he hears.”

“Then I will definitely make sure I mention it in front of the kiddo,” the twenty-three year old sniffed loudly. “Just to piss Kou off. Are we still on for Saturday?”

“It’s Isao’s birthday party. Of course we are still on,” Takato sounded incredulous, as if it were stupid for Akihito to think that they might reschedule the toddler’s third birthday party. 

“Just double checking dude. Three-thirty?”   
“You’ll be there?” Takato asked lowly. “No side trips on that day?” The technician knew about Akihito’s side business, if you will, and was intimately aware of everyone that the journalist was blackmailing. He did not have the secret stash of info, but he knew where it was. Not even Rinka knew that her husband kept such a secret. 

“I’ve got nothing planned except watching the vote,” Akihito promised. “I’ll be there with bells on.”

“Just stay here then. We’ll be watching it, too.” Everyone in Japan would be. It this bill passed, not only would it alter the way every single person in Japan lived, but the way future generations passed laws. It would make Japan, and Tokyo by extension, more affordable for the lower class, and hopefully gentrify the slums. Give the children the life they deserved, not the life they were born into to. 

“I though that little man couldn’t sleep with the TV on,” Akihito shoved more cold freezer burned food into his mouth. “He makes you put Transformers on.”

“Pokemon now,” Takato chuckled. “It’s all either of the boys talk about. And we’ll put the TV in the kitchen. Neither one should be able to hear it there.”   
The family of four needed more space than a crammed two bedroom apartment. In the price gouged city however, it was a miracle that they were able to afford that much space. They lived too close to the gokudou for Rinka’s comfort, but apartments in the center of Tokyo were twice the price and half the size. 

“You’re joking,” Akihito laughed, despite his friend being completely serious. 

“When you have kids, you do what you have to get a little adult time. Even if it’s just watching the stock reports around the kitchen table and eating three day old soup.”

Akihito threw away the empty bento box. “You’re living the dream dude,” he chuckled. 

“Oh shit, Isao’s out of the tub and we can’t find Daiki. Gotta go!” the phone disconnected. Daiki was the capricious five year old who hated all things clean and healthy. If the kid could only eat chocolate chips and cheese, he would. Takato and Rinka struggled every night to get him to bathe, and as far as Akihito knew, would randomly grab the kid while he was playing for bath time. Isao must have gotten muddy if he was washed first. 

Switching off mute as Asami Ryuichi’s picture flashed on the screen, the photographer listened to the billionaire’s latest act of charity. He pledged four million to cleaning up the slums of Tokyo, and instilling youth centers and parks for the poor children. They might not have access to the best schools, but they had the right to be well educated citizens. 

Akihito wasn’t sure how he felt about the conspicuous man. The affluent man was strongly against PR-229, claiming that it was the poor’s responsibility to help themselves. In the same breath, his company sponsored inner-city kids. Every semester they ended in excellent academic standing equaled a check written to the child. The parents could save the money for the child, or invest it in school. It was a program to keep kids away from the godukos, and focused for the university entrance exams that decided each child’s future. 

The billionaire answered the rapidly fired questions, and all too soon, the tawny haired photojournalist was bored. The last vestiges of horny stirred in the pit of his gut. It had been almost a month since he had gotten laid. The fat remote clattered on the wooden floor as he lazily stroked the front of his pants. Dropping his head on the couch, Akihito shimmied out of his jeans. He took a deep breath, eyes fluttering shut, as he relaxed and let the tension of the day ooze out of his body. Cock already half hard, his fingers found the soft skin and stroked upwards. 

It wasn’t a hard or fast paced fuck. His hand cradled his dick comfortingly, and his numb mind went blank. He thought of nothing, imagined nothing, just listened to the deep voice on the screen and pulled himself to a gentle and relaxing orgasm. 

*

“Takaba!” Wakazaki hit the plexiglass of his office window. Unfortunately, Takaba did not have a nice office. There was enough space for a bookshelf and a dented metal desk. The window outside was no larger than an air register. The window that looked out into the scurrying foray of the newspaper editing room was dirty, and people often rapped on it, like assholes hit an aquarium’s glass, startling him and the fish. “Is that cop story yet?” the grizzled editor chewed on an unlit cigar. 

“Yeah yeah,” the blond rummaged around his desk. He had worked on the story late into the night. Every I was dotted and T crossed. The prose was exquisite and scathing, and the facts inarguable. 

“Huh,” Wakazaki glanced at the paper that was littered in red ink. “What’s your next story?”

“Haven’t found anything criminal yet,” the twenty-five year old shrugged. “So probably the vote.”

“Vote my ass,” the editor snapped of the Raibum Chronicle. “Yoko from the third floor has the covered. She’s our political correspondent, not you. I pay you for crime, and that’s what I want!”

“If you even pay for that article,” muttered Takaba under his breath. 

“Wha’?” the old codger didn’t have his hearing aids turned up enough to hear the bitchy dissent that wafted through the staff, smelling like moldy piss and sounding worse. 

“I said fine,” he finally looked up from his black ledger. “I’ll take care of it!” Takaba waved his boss out of the door. “Something salacious and disgusting! It’ll sell a lot of papers!”

“Now that’s what I’m talking about,” Wakazaki shouted over his shoulder. “That’s what people pay to read from us!”

Getting up, Takaba slammed his door shut. Fuck this place, and fuck the man that rode his ass like the father he never had. He didn’t care about selling any of the shitty tabloid that ran bait and switch stories to trick idiots into buying copies. He wanted to do real journalism, but that was a pipe dream. If he moved to a more prominent paper, he would lose his grasp on the underworld. People would know his face, be able to find his friends and family; would hurt them for revenge. He could not let that happen. So he would stay in this hellhole and keep tabs on the criminals who scurried the streets of Tokyo like rats. 

He would make this world a better place one way or the other. 

*

“Dammit, Chouji!” Takaba slammed the drugged out kid against the alley wall. Debris shot out of the crumbling brick walls. He blinked to dislodge it from his eyes. “How fucking high are you?”

“Get off me, man!” the scrawny kid slapped at his wrists. There was not much strength in him though, and it felt more cat’s headbutt than an blow from a man. “I don’t know nuthin’!”

Keeping him pinned to the wall, Takaba pulled open Chouji’s jacket open. He rifled through it, tossing the drug baggies onto the pavement, and and three separate lighters. Chouji was so high that he barely struggled when the photographer grabbed his phone. He was used to being manhandled by drug dealers and the gokudou. The scars and cigarette burns that covered the kid’s body made Takaba sick. Chouji owed a lot of people a lot of money, and many of them took interest out on his skin. Sober, the teen would call it a business expense, a necessary evil if he wanted to keep his nose in everyone’s business. 

“Finally,” the reporter flipped open the phone, which really should have been in a museum. “What do you have for me?”

“Nothing man, nuthin,” Chouji’s head rolled to the side. “Fei Long took it all.”

“Fei Long?” Takaba repeated. The foreign name felt heavy on his tongue. It was definitely Chinese and most important of all, a name that Takaba had never heard before. And he knew every player in Tokyo. If not, he met them quickly. 

“Who is he? What does he want?” Takaba scrolled through Chouji’s messages. The kid ate an extraordinary amount. Most of his texts were either to dealers for a fix, or to a guy named Max, with a Canadian flag emoji by his name. That seemed to be his partner in crime. They talked about easy places to rob and places that sold the best tacos. 

“I dunno man,” Chouji slurred his words. “He just showed up, man.”

“You said he took everything,” Takaba eased up on the kid. Chouji fell forward, and grabbed his knees to steady himself. He looked disoriented, but steady on his feet. He must have been shoved against walls frequently. “What did he take?”

“He copied my phone,” 

Takaba paused. If this Fei Long copied Chouji’s phone, it meant that he had nearly a complete list of the drug runners in Tokyo. Chouji was a junkie, so he dealt only with the peons. It was the runners that reported to the dealers, who answered to the gokudous. By taking the names of the runners, Fei Long could infiltrate and even disseminate the Tokyo drug ring. It would be a complete takeover. 

“Bingo,” Takaba whispered. 

“Huh?” Chouji grunted. 

“Never mind,” Takaba waved the kid away. “You’ve been a lot of help, as usual.”

“No problem, man,” sniffing loudly, he wiped his nose with the back of his wrist. “Hey man, you got a fifty? I’m starving and I’m a……a little short,” Chouji patted his pockets for effect. 

“Twenty’s all I got,” Takaba dropped it onto the ground. The idiot was going to use it for more drugs, and the reporter wasn’t going to stop him. Let him live his life the way he wanted to, and if he scratched Takaba’s back, the reporter would scratch his. 

*

“Daiki,” Takato called to the five year old. The boy weaved around the bustling crowd, clutching his ice cream cone, utterly oblivious to the adults that glared as they side stepped him. His wondrous eyes glanced at the vendors who sold cheap things to rich tourists and focused on the grotesque gargoyles that watched the streets from high above. “Watch where you’re going.”

The kid nodded, and kept ogling the buildings. 

“He needs a leash too,” Akihito chuckled. The natives were content to let the child learn a lesson, barreling on ahead. Daiki was knocked back, and didn’t really care. He kept smiling and looking up. It was the tourists who grumbled. They dodged the kid, bumping in to others. They muttered in their foreign tongues, and glared at Takato and Akihito as they walked by. 

“Please, Isao is embarrassing enough,” the blond nodded to his second son, who wore a kiddie leash and struggled to follow in his brother’s footsteps. “Don’t put that idea in Rinka’s head, because she will make me do it.”

Akihito laughed. “Now I have to tell her!” Having found out about Fei Long the day before, Akihito put his nose to the grindstone. However, he was having a hard time finding anything out. The closest he came was a guy from Hong Kong that owned a couple of casinos. He would have been a prime suspect, if Aki were foolish enough to believe that a drug lord would be doing his own dirty work on the streets. He was convinced that Fei Long was a Chinese national who worked for an up and coming gokudou.

“Dude,” Takato’s face was pained. He loved his wife, but the office manager earned her title by micromanaging every part of her life. 

“Did Yonosuke let you off for this Saturday?” Takaba grabbed Daiki’s sticky hand. They had come to the cross walk, and as one mob, crossed the street. He didn’t want the boy to wander off with the wrong adults, and Takato had his hands full with Isao, who wanted to chase a stray doggie. 

“He wasn’t happy about it but yeah,” the blond picked up his youngest son. “He says that I’m the only keyholder who can work Saturday evenings, but I told him that wasn’t my problem.” Takato worked for a grocer part time. It wasn’t glamorous, and cash register wasn’t typically what his computer degree was used for, but it helped pay the rent. Plus, Yonosuke gave him a discount on their groceries. 

“He’s not going to fire you, right?” Akihito stopped walking under the giant red billboard. PR-229: Vote 10/01. IT’S YOUR MONEY, KEEP IT. 

“I doubt it. I”m the only one who isn’t a teenager,” Takato sighed. His face was forlorn as he stared at the massive sign. “Do you think this is going to pass, Aki? Seriously, what chance do we actually have?”

“I’m trying,” the reporter shook his head. He sounded tired, but his friend was exhausted. Takato’s handsome face was slowly becoming gaunt as stress aged him. “If I’ve counted the numbers right, we have the vote by two. But that’s a slim margin.” Politicians were slimy. They made sure it benefited them before worrying about their constituents. If someone made a better offer, or had a threat worse than Akihito, it was all over. The vote would be shut down indefinitely.

“We need this, Aki. We need it bad,” Takato told him. 

The reporter’s numbers were always––always––accurate, but the human inconsistency made him exceedingly nervous.

“I know man,” the reporter could think of a dozen families that struggled to pay rent every month. Struggled to feed and clothe their kids. Inflation was rampant in Tokyo, and it was getting too expensive to live there. “I know.”

“Rinka’s pregnant again,”

“What?” Akihito dropped Daiki’s hand, whipping around to face his friend. His mouth hung open. 

Takato nodded, “Yeah. We found out last month.”

He swallowed the hard lump in his throat. “Congrats man,” he tried to sound happy. “I know you wanted a little girl.”

Takato forwent the I’m-happy-as-long-as-it’s-healthy speech, instead squeezing Isao’s kiddie leash tighter. “We can’t afford this.” Takato met his wife on the job. He was a tech and she was his boss’s boss. Their office romance was forbidden, scandalous and all the hotter because of that. It all changed when Rinka became pregnant. Takato resigned and they were married. 

“This is going to pass,” Akihito patted his friend on the back. 

“It has to, Aki,” Takato’s shoulders hung in absolute defeat. Five years ago, Rinka’s job was enough to support the two while Takato looked for work. Even with glowing recommendations, he was only able to get a part time job in an HR department. When they realized how expensive childcare was, Takato opted to from home to care for the boy. The same week that Isao was born, his company went bankrupt and Takato lost his job. That was when he started to work at Yonosuke’s place. It wasn’t the dream life he had planned in university, and in the brief moments of drunken honesty between friends, he admitted that he felt like a failure. 

“If it doesn’t, we’ll have to leave Tokyo,” Takato dropped that bomb.

The ground beneath his feet trembled. The photographer struggled to breathe, struggled to think, and all he could do was gape like a fish. “Where?” his breathy words were strangled in his throat. 

“Rinka’s parents are in Naratsuoka,” responded the desolate father. “We can stay with them for a few weeks while we look for a place, and try to find jobs. If we move, I could go back to full time work. Her mother is more than happy to watch the kids.”

Dread coiled in his stomach. This was not some farfetched fear that Takato had been rolling around in his head, but an actual plan between a married couple. They were desperately holding onto their last straw, and it was the straw that was going to break them. If they got no help, they would have to return home as failures. Their costly two bedroom apartment was crammed as it was, and there was no way that they could afford to move to a bigger place when they struggled to make rent and feed their kids.

“It’s not going to fail, Takato,” the photojournalist vowed. If he had the money to give them, he would. And as hopeless parents, they would accept it. He steeled his shoulders. “I promise you.” 

He might not have had the money to help, which would have been a short term solution at best, but he did have a very special set of skills. If anyone could rig a vote, it was him. 

*

Slipping through the wet bars of a fire escape, Takaba pulled his Nikon out of its bag. He was waiting outside the West Parliament building. He refused to fail Takato and Rinka. No one was moving away on his watch. And if that meant a night perched on a fire escape, waiting for more blackmail, that was what he was going to do. Tonight, he was waiting for Chairman Miyazaki, a reputable man by most standards. Most of Japan––even most journalism––considered him to be squeaky clean.

Not Takaba. The man smelled too lemon fresh to be true. Something had to be simmering below the surface, and tonight he was going to find out what it was. One might think that there were easier targets, and Takaba agreed. But they were hiding too deep in the crevices of the city. He didn’t have time to ferret them out, so he would stalk the only accessible and unattached man. 

Miyazaki was alone in his office. Takaba snapped a few test photos of the haggard man, hunched over his desk as he drafted some policy to benefit the wealthy. And then the waiting game began. He skived off work that day to stalk the man. Thus far nothing, but Takaba was patient. Miyazaki would slip up eventually.

Forty-five minutes passed midnight, Takaba’s interest peaked. Miyazaki grabbed his phone off of his desk, and looking around wildly as if he expected to see the photographer, answered. Waving away his secretary, he jerked his chin and then hung up. Grabbing his suit jacket off the back of his chair, Miyazaki quite literally ran out of his office. Moments later, his secretary walked back into the room, looking around wildly for him. 

Shifting up, propping himself on his elbows, Takaba pointed the camera at the back exit of the building. Sure enough, the back door burst open and Miyazaki ran out. Takaba snapped a few pictures as his mind raced. He was going to have to clamber back onto the roof and then chase whatever getaway car Miyazaki got in to. 

Wait a second…oh, shit! Jerking his camera from its perch, the twenty-five year old blond made himself as small as possible on the fire escape, shrinking into the shadows like a cat. Miyazaki was headed his way. The politician kept glancing at his phone even though he held it as far away from him as possible. The man acted like it was a bomb that was going to explode any moment. 

“What the hell?” Takaba wondered if he could snap a few shot as a white SUV pulled into the alleyway. He expected Miyazaki to get in like some drug deal on a television show. Instead, a thin man in a light gray suit got out. 

“Miyazaki,” his voice was high pitched. Feminine. Not something that the photographer would ave expected from a major criminal. Or at least someone who made Miyazaki worthy of blackmail. 

“Kurotsuchi,” Miyazaki’s voice was gravelly. “Why can’t we meet in my office? I can guarantee that it isn't bugged.”

“Your guarantees mean nothing to me,” Kurotsuchi grumbled. “It is better this way. More official. For semantics.”

“Official?” Miyazaki scoffed. “There is nothing official about this! This is stupid! Out in the open where any one can see us!”

“Anyone?” Kurotsuchi gestured sweepingly to the dark alley in which the stood. His fingers pointed directly at Takaba for the briefest of moments and then continued on their grand path. “Look around us! There isn’t a person in sight!”

Miyazaki scrutinizingly peered around the dark alley. Takaba pushed himself against the wall, and as he sucked in his gut, he stomached breathing. Willed his heart to stop beating. Whatever it took to keep the men from seeing him. Eyes closed, he prayed that no light glinted off the shiny plastic of his camera. If a stray beam caught it at just the right angle, it would be lights out for the photojournalist. 

“What do you want?” Miyazaki spat out, at last satisfied that they were alone in the dark. 

Kurotsuchi’s demeanor changed immediately. “My employer needs to put a hit out.”

“Fine, fine!” Miyazaki waved his hands desperately. “This can be discussed over the phone! Why are we outside?” Sensing that Kurotsuchi did not want to rehash the previous conversation, he crossed his arms and asked. “Who and how?”

Takaba’s blood stilled. He knew that Miyazaki was too lemony fresh. The man was a broker for hitmen. It was clear that he did not care who the target was, and the he could have them die in way necessary. Fingers slipping into his pocket, the blond pulled out his phone and hit record. Blackmail––and the vote––was his. 

“Asami Ryuichi. It doesn’t matter how it’s done as long as it’s quick. Time is of the essence.”

Takaba glanced at the phone. Yup. It was recording all of this. He felt bad for Asami. Takaba had not managed to find any dirt on the man, but he had not been looking. For such a generous man, he never once came to poor parts of Tokyo. Akihito could not prove that the generosity was for public approval, but he suspected it. However, the tycoon was not running for any office, nor had he made any official plans to do so. Still, he had to have had an angle. They always did, and the journalist would not feel bad if another scumbag died. 

“Before the vote?” Miyzaki asked. That was the most important event happening in Japan for year, possible the decade. Most requests of this nature came around important events. “He opposes PR-229.”

See? Asami was a jackass like the rest of the rich. The profited off the poor and did little to help them. 

“This has nothing to do with the vote. My employer is foreign. He doesn’t care about how our government takes care of its impoverished.”

“For whom do you work?” Miyazaki arched an eyebrow. “I know the names of everyone who seeks me out.”

Pulling a cigarette out, Kurotsuchi lit it. “He’d kill me if I told. And offending you isn’t worth my life. Or my wife’s body.” The guy’s employer was a bad ass. The worst of the worst targeted innocent family members. Kurotsuchi didn’t seem bothered by it at all, as if his wife’s rape was acceptable if he profited from it. It sickened the blond. 

Miyazaki let out a strangled grunt. Rolling his eyes, Kurotsuchi took a long drag from his cancer stick. “Just get it done. My boss doesn’t like to be kept waiting.” Cigarette barely used, he dropped it onto the wet ground and stubbed it out with his pointed shoe. “If you’re worried about DNA, you can pick that up,” he told Miyazaki. 

The man slid back into his waiting ride. The SUV backed out of the alley rather than going forward. The head beams stayed on Miyazaki the entire time. As the car drove away, the politician rubbed his eyes and picked up the hot cigarette. Muttering about fucktards, he walked back into the Parliament building. Takaba waited until the man was sitting back in his office chair before climbing down the fire escape and running to the nearest print shop. The vote was in thirty-six hours, and he needed to get his blackmail ready. 

*

He never got to use it, though. The next morning, right as Takaba was dropping a copy of the tape into a manilla envelope and gluing it shut, the ground shook. Not the way it had when Takato mentioned the move. But the floor began to tremor, the walls shake. His diploma from his shitty university fell from the wall, glass shattering. 

“Earthquake!” Akinawa shouted. Takaba didn’t like the guy, thought he was an idiot, but everyone else was dropping to their knees and crawling under desks. The entire building shook. Dust fell from the shitty ceiling. Clocks and pictures fell of the walls. The eastside window cracked, the high pitched shriek sounded like nails on a chalkboard. 

Takaba crawled under his desk. Roruona dropped to her knees, covering her head. Leaning out, the photographer grabbed her arm and pulled her under. Just in time, too, because an overhead light dislodged. It fell to the floor, shattering. Glass and debris blew everywhere, shattering like a bomb. Roruona cowered, hiding her head in Takaba’s neck. She was the office flirt, but he still put his arm around her and pulled her close. Just a preventative measure. 

The shaking was over nearly as quickly as it started, but the office was in shambles. Plaster had cracked. Lights had fallen from the ceiling and off walls. Furniture had shattered. Takaba was sure that the building’s foundation was ruined, too. 

“Check the printers,” Wakazaki was crawling out from beneath his desk. Plaster had turned his dark hair white. “Get ahold of the other departments! Who’s hurt?”

“Thank you, Takaba,” Roruona tucked her short hair behind her ear. 

“No problem,” the blond pushed himself off of the floor. He was looking down the street. Cars had shifted int he road. Trees had fallen. People were on the ground, some were hurt. One building had a massive crack in its facade. 

“Holy fucking shit,” Wanatabe gasped. 

“What?” Wakazaki snapped. Then his mouth dropped open. “Oh fuck.”

Takaba whirled around. Thick black smoke was rising from the center of Tokyo. It was far away, but if they could see the smoke, the fire must have been massive. “This wasn’t an earthquake,” Takaba muttered. 

*

A gas line had exploded in Shinjuku. Thirty-eight people were dead, and nearly eighty were missing. It was the largest industrial accident in the city. Downtown was destroyed. Building had collapsed as a large gash tore through the road, swallowing anything within reach of its mouth. 

A gas pipe had exploded in downtown Shinjuku. At precisely 10:13 AM, the street had begun to shake. And quite suddenly, the world had ripped apart. Sewer heads burst into the sky, fire hydrants spewed water, and a great fissure cracked like lightning down the center of the street. Thirty-eight people were dead and nearly eighty were still missing. It was the largest industrial accident in the city. Downtown was destroyed. Building had collapsed as a large gash tore through the road, swallowing anything within reach of its mouth. 

Akihito sat in Takato’s kitchen, watching the scene unfold. Rescue workers ran behind Field reporter Takanawa Tricia. The gas had been shut off, but so much of it hung like smog. Fires erupted constantly, triggered by small sparks––as little as a car’s ignition could ignite an entire block. Cement and metal littered the ground in heavy chunks. Fire fighters in their big boots kept tripping over them. The entire neighborhood was evacuated, but the clogged traffic only endangered more people. 

“I can’t believe this is happening,” Rinka pulled her thick hair back into a ponytail. No one could take their eyes off the screen. The camera panned past a charred body that hung from third story window. The poor soul had burned to death before it could jump out of the window. “This is impossible.”

Akihito clutched his hot tea, now icy cold. He agreed with Rinka. It seemed impossible that the bustling district was reduced to heaping ash and the screams of people looking for loved ones missing. Field reporter Takanawa Tricia tried to talk over the wailing, but overtime a cop pulled a civilian away from the chaos, poignant grief seized him. He was thankful that he didn’t know anyone who lived there, that no one he loved was in any danger. He could not even imagine the pain that these people were filling as they crowded around the caution barriers, watching as police shifted through the rubble and firemen tried to save their homes. 

“What does this mean for PR-229?” Takanawa’s nasal voice asked. “Our government has already declared a state of emergency for the next several days. Rescue teams are working around the clock to get the fires under control and save anyone trapped inside. In light of this tragedy, Parliament has delayed its finally session until next week, in case they need to divert funds or take further action to help the victims.”

“Great,” Takato slapped his thighs. “The rich are screwing us all over again!”

Rinka put a stilling hand on her husband’s shoulder. “That isn’t what is happening, Takato,” she told him. “And it’s unfair for you to say that.”   
“I know, I know,” collapsing, he rubbed his face with his hands. “We don’t have that much time, though. We aren’t sure if we can make it here, even if the bill did pass tomorrow. I don’t see how we can feasibly last another week without knowing.”

“I know, babydoll. I know,” Rinka pressed her forehead to Takato’s and feeling as though he was intruding, Akihito studiously watched the television. “But we’ll figure something out. We always have.”

Akihito thought to his wallet, and the thousand yen he had tucked away. It wasn’t a lot of money, but it would make a difference in their lives. He wouldn’t give it to them now, but tomorrow. He didn’t want to embarrass them, but he loved them both, loved their kids like they were his brothers, and he would do whatever he could to take care of them. 

“Though we were unable to reach the business tycoon for an interview,” Takanawa surmised. 

Pulling away from her husband, Rinka sniffed and wiped her eyes brusquely. “What did we miss?”

Akihito was embarrassed to admit that he had been eavesdropping on them, and not paying attention to the TV. But Asami Ryuichi’s picture flashed up again, and scrolling beneath it said that he was one of several who pledged to help clean up Shinjuku. “Asami’s going to help with restoration and clean up costs,” he tried to act natural. 

“Bless that man,” Rinka sniffed again. She was crying. Akihito afforded her the grace that she cried for the victims and not fear for her family. She was too proud to do that with an audience. 

“You like him?” Akihito’s voice was incredulous. 

“We enrolled both boys in his educational program when he first introduced it last year. I didn’t think much of it, that it was just a billionaire’s publicity stunt. But the school term finished and last week, Daiki got a check. It wasn’t much, but neither were his grades. He liked it though; it’s making him study harder now.”

Her son’s eyes had lit up with glee when she gave him the check. Rinka only intended to the show the boy what his handwork could earn him, but his brown eyes glowed and he handed her back the check. “I’m helping, Mommy,” he said to her with a toothy grin. “Use it for Isao’s party!”

Her son, her beautiful boy, overheard her whispering with Takato. They weren’t going to have a big birthday party for the toddler, just a few presents and a cake. Daiki remembered when he used to have big parties, and wanted for his little brother to have the same. She cried with pride that day, and then deposited the check into an account for the kid. Seventy yen wouldn’t make a difference to Isao, and Daiki would need all the money he could when he was older, especially if nothing changed in Japan. 

Akihito listened to the story with a furrowed brow. Takato truly did have an amazing family. The selflessness astounded him. Even as she squared her shoulders, Rinka asked if they should forgo the birthday party and volunteer at the disaster site. The recording in his pocket burned like a flame, blistering his soft hip. Standing, he grabbed his jacket. 

“I need to be getting home,” he heard himself say. The blond felt disassociated from his body, like his spirit hovered above him, watching as only a silent specter could. “There is something I have to take care of. See you all tomorrow,” he didn’t wait for the lovebirds to say goodbye, but turned on his heel and left. 

“Aki! Hey man, wait up!” Takato followed him not the hallway. Glancing back his apartment door, where he was sure Rinka stood, ear pressed against the wood, he motioned for the blond to go into the stairwell with him. “What’s going on? You can’t seriously have a job tonight!”

“Keep your voice down,” Akihito looked around for any prying ears. No one would know what he was talking about, but he could never be too careful. He was the man with the most enemies in Tokyo, and his life was in danger every second he spoke about his side business. “It’s something else entirely.”

“What’s going on?” Takato whispered. He knew of every single person that Akihito blackmailed. He kept a secret logged that the journalist knew nothing about as a safety measure. Just in case one night Akihito didn’t come back.

The blond sighed. “I was on the job last night, and I overheard this.” Pulling out his phone, his friend held it to his ear and listened. Cheeks tinged with green, Takato returned the phone. “Who’s––“

“Miyazaki Shinji. He’s a broker for assassins.”

“Holy fucking shit,” Takato sighed. “I’m guessing you were there about the vote.” That was delicately as Takato could put it. 

Akihito nodded. “Yeah, and I was going to persuade him to vote yes with this. But now that the vote is rescheduled, and Asami seems to be doing what he promised to, I need to give it to the cops.”

“Yeah, yeah man you need to,” Takato rubbed his forehead. “That’s some serious shit right there.”

“I know,” Akihito felt tainted. He should have gone to the police with the info immediately. It would still have gotten rid of Miyazaki’s vote, and ensured that Asami Ryuichi lived. Had Miyazaki found a hitman, then Asami’s blood would have been on Akihito’s hands, making him as bad as the criminals he persecuted. “I was wrong, but it’s a mistake I can fix.”

Takat nodded. “Call me when you get home,” he was never able to sleep until his knew his friend was safely home. “Don’t forget, because I’ll call you.”

“Yeah right,” Akihito snorted. The father swore that he wouldn’t sleep until he called, but the reporter knew better. The second Akihito left, Takato would pass out. Akihito’s calls always seemed to go to voicemail, regardless of the day. 

“I swear to all that is holy, Akihito!” Leaning over the railing, he should at the descending journalist. Akihito just laughed.

Surprisingly, the police believed him. There was no quarreling, no disbelief. The exhausted officers looked like they had been running around like chickens with their heads cut off nodded and let Akihito play the recording. They took down his information, seized the tape as evidence and asked him to give a statement. It took a few hours just because everything was so backlogged. Eventually, a sergeant came in and shook his hand, thanking him for the tip. 

“No problem,” Takaba shrugged his shoulders. “I wish it wasn’t today of all days.”

The sergeant was an old man with a thick beard and broad shoulders. He looked as haggard as his men. “When it rains, it pours unfortunately.”

Takaba knew that all too well. “Well, you’ve got my number. Call if you need me at all.”

“Will do. Thank you again for the tip. Do you want an officer to drive you home?” Sergeant Akina said. Takaba knew that every man and woman in the station was exhausted. They had just experienced the most traumatizing day of their life, and the work was far from over. 

“Nah. I’m good to walk. But thank you,” the reporter smiled at them. “For all that you do.”

Sergeant Akina’s smile was warm. “You’re welcome, Takaba-san.”

Patting his pockets to make sure his keys, phone and wallet were still there, the investigative journalist took the long way home that night. He had done the right thing. Rather than use crime to combat crime, he prevented it. And that warmed him on that chilly night.

*

Isao’s birthday party was supposed to start at 3:30, but because the adults in his life were shitty human beings, it was closer to 4:15 before everyone made it. When Akihito nudged the door open with his foot, he was greet with a chorus of “Hey!” and his godson screaming, “Aki! Aki! Aki!” Dropping the present on table, the photographer grabbed the birthday boy under the arms and swung him around. Isao shouted and giggled loudly, his legs swimming through the empty air around him.

“Happy birthday, kiddo!” Akihito pressed a kiss to his chubby cheek. 

“Birfday!” Isao repeated with a gummy smile. He had chocolate smeared across one of his cheek and a crayon in his hand. There was no telling what mischief he had gotten into already. 

“Hey man,” Takato was coming in with pizza and beer. “Glad you could make it. And on time, too!” 

“Kou’s late again?” the photographer chuckled. Taking the beer from Takato’s full hands, he slid it into the fridge. “Well that’s not a surprise. He’s probably balls deep in––“

“Kids present!” Rinka swept through the kitchen. Sliding a birthday hat on Akihito’s head, she pressed a kiss to his cheek. “But you’re right about Kou.”

“Hey Rinka,” he smiled like he hadn’t seen her in days. Isao and Daiki laughed and squealed in the living room. The two boys from next door were also there, but Akihito couldn’t remember their names. 

“Boys! The pizza is here!” Rinka shouted to the four. There were squeals and thundering footsteps as the four kids ran into the kitchen, like stampeding buffalo. They all talked loudly over each other, holding paper plates up for Takato to put a slice of pizza on. With the parents distracted, Akihito pulled a bent envelope out of his pocket, and slid it into Rinka’s purse. She wouldn’t know where the money came from, but hopefully it would make the next few weeks easier on the family. 

“Aki!” Isao grabbed his finger. “Pisa! Pisa!”

“You get yours first, birthday boy,” the twenty-five year old laughed. 

“Birfday!” Isao chimed again. Takato was right. The kid repeated whatever was said to him. 

Grinning, Akihito leaned close to him. “Can you say ‘I love Aki most’? More than Kou?”

“Aki more dan Coco!” 

“Isao!” the neighbor’s son called. He stood in the doorway, pizza in hand and waiting for the birthday boy to join the party. “Pokemon’s on!”

“Pok’mon,” Isao tottered after his friend. Stopping when he realized that Akihito wasn’t following, he turned around, big eyes glistening. “Aki more dan Coco,” he repeated gravely. 

“I love you too, kiddo,” Akihito told him. 

The toddler nodded solemnly, than ran off to join his party. Takato shook his head. Tossing the blond a beer, he said, “I think my son loves you more than me.”

“Well, I am lovable,” Akihito laughed. 

The party was in full swing. The kids were watching a cartoon while playing some board game. No one really seemed to know the rules, but they laughed and hollered. Isao was the center of attention, Daiki made sure of it. The rules always seemed to be bent in his favor, and he magically one every game. None of the boys were bothered by this, laughing and calling him King for the Day. 

Kou eventually arrived with a date. She was an exotic looking woman, with dark skin and full lips. And even bigger boobs. Kou kept his arm around her waist, head proudly puffed up, much like a strutting peacock. Her name was Alice, and she was at Tokyo University getting her degree in ESL. She spoke Japanese flawlessly, her grammar better than Akihito’s or Kou’s. Rinka took to her almost instantly, and they quickly left the men to talk about a fashion magazine Alice had in her bag.

“Happy birthday, Isao!” Kou ruffled the birthday boy’s hair. 

Isao looked Kou dead in the eye and said, “Luff Aki more dan Coco!”

Takato and Akihito howled on the couch, gripping their stomachs and trying to not fall off. Kou turned bright red. “You told him to say that!” he accused the two hysterical men. Isao laughed too and shouted, “LUFF AKI MORE DAN COCO!”

The doorbell rang. “I’ll get it, I’ll get it, since Kou can’t move from the raincloud over his head,” Akihito waved Takato down. “Enjoy the party. You’ve earned it.”

“Can I help you?” Akihito pulled the door open and looked up at the face of Asami Ryuichi. The man was much taller than the photographer expected, and bigger too. His shoulders were nearly as wide as the door. 

“May I speak with you, for a minute?” the man’s voice was deeper in real life. Akihito wasn't sure if he had a body double for television appearances. 

“Uhh…sure,” was the most eloquent thing that Akihito could come up with. Stepping out into the hall, he made sure to shut the door behind him. “Can I help you with something?” Maybe the dude wanted to interrogate him about the hit, find out if Akihito knew anything else. Akihito didn’t blame him. If someone had threatened his life, he would damn sure want to get to the bottom of it. 

“I wanted to say thank you,” the man looked down at Akihiot. “You risked your life to save mine. I am forever in your debt.”

“Don’t worry about it,” the blond laughed and rubbed the back of his head. He tried to keep his furiously beating heart calm, to keep his voice even. “It was the right thing to do! It wasn’t a problem.”

“Had Miyazaki discovered you, he would have killed you without a second thought. So yes, thanks are very necessary.”

“If it makes you feel better, sure,” his hands were sweaty. He couldn’t look the man in the eye. Holy fuck, the guy was a solid wall of muscle dressed in an Armani suit. Akihito felt like a sloppy kid in his stretched out jeans and cut off shirt. “So, ugh…you’re welcome, I guess.” He swallowed loudly. 

Asami smelled really good, like really good. It must have been top shelf cologne because Akihito had never smelled it before. His heart pumped adrenaline through his system, arousal starting to peak. He needed to get back in the apartment where he could cool off. And tonight, he was going to find some press conference about Asami Ryuichi and masturbate to it. Yeah, that sounded like a plan.

“Takaba, are you alright?” Asami leaned closer. Stupidly, Akihito looked up. Bright golden eyes were locked on to his. Lightning crackled between them as a soft sweat broke out all over his body. Akihito was gay; he had known it his entire life, and really had never been an issue. Not until Mr. Hottie McHotPants knocked on the door. Oh fuck, yeah he was really turned on just by smelling the beefcake’s cologne. If Asami didn’t leave within the next five seconds, Akihito was going to have to duck out of the party early and find a one night stand to plow his ass. Kenzou was typically down to fuck. Okay, new plan. 

“Are you ill?” Asami was the picture of concern. He brushed a hand against the photographer’s forehead. “You are a little warm.”

“It’s nothing,” Akihito prayed that he wouldn’t get a stiffy then and there. Then he'd look like some obsessive fanboy. Which he wasn’t. He had never given Asami Ryuichi a second though before this very moment. 

“It’s something, Takaba,” Asami leaned in closer. Their noses nearly touched. “And I insist that you tell me.” His baritone went deeper, more guttural and he slowly drawled the words. He knew, Akihito realized suddenly. Asami must have had people fawning over him all of the time. He must have been able to see Akihito’s arousal, perhaps even smell it because the photographer was just that turned on. 

“It’s nothing, Asami-san. I promise.”

“Hmm,” the man pursed his lips. “I’d like to thank you properly for saving life.”

“Uh, sure?” Words were becoming harder for Akihito. His brain had almost shut down. At this point, Asami could do whatever he wanted as long as he left. 

“Excellent,” Asami stood up, towering over the blond. Rather than be irked at the height difference, it made Akihito feel safe, which was…strange. Different. Not entirely unpleasant. “My man will pick you you tomorrow night at seven.”

Huh? Asami took Akihito’s hand. Chatoyant eyes locked on Akihito’s dilated pupils, and so slowly that Akihito could have stopped him if he wanted to, pressed a kiss to the top of his hand. “I’ll see you tomorrow night, Takaba.”

With that, he swept out of the hallway and into the stairwell, where two men waited for him. Akihito stayed pressed against the wall, trying to figure out exactly what just happened. It was almost like Asami Ryuichi had just asked him out on a date. But that wasn’t it at all. 

Right?

*

“Asami Ryuichi lives?” a soft voice asked from an ornate desk. A beautiful man with long black hair sat behind it, his hands folded in front of him. “Why? Miyazaki has the best men at his disposal.” They were on a luxury liner in Hong Kong. Five men stood in a semi circle around the desk, waiting for the beautiful man to react to the news.

“That’s the problem, Laobhan,” a fat man bowed low. “Miyazaki was arrested for plotting to murder Asami Ryuichi. He’s in police custody, awaiting trial. And he was never able to put a price on the bastard’s head.”

The Laobhan tsked his tongue. “I rely on you to get these things done, Kurotsuchi. You are my voice in Japan, and you can’t even orchestrate the death of one man. If you can’t do something so simple, why should I trust you with important matters?”

Kurotsuchi stood next to the short, fat man named Wan. “I understand, Fei Long, Laobhan. It was a speed bump, something to be overcome. I can still bring you Asami’s head.”

“Good,” the beautiful man with purple eyes nodded. “How was Miyazaki even discovered? You were discreet, I am sure.” His eyes were poisonous, and Kurotsuchi knew that if he did not choose his next words carefully, he would end up on the bottom of the Yángzǐ Jiāng. 

“A reporter by the name of Takaba Akihito had Miyazaki bugged without his knowledge. He turned the recording to the police. It took some finesse, but our men managed to obtain a copy of it.”

“And?” Fei Long’s voice was soft, almost gentle, and it was in these placid moments that he was the most dangerous. “Was my name mentioned in any way?”

“No, sir,” Kurotsuchi bowed again. “I would never betray you like that. It was all the journalist.”

“Takaba Akihito?” Fei Long repeated. “I know that name.”

“He is the journalist responsible for blackmailing so much of Japan’s elite,” Kurotsuchi explained. “The one who demands favors instead of yen.”

“Does he know my name?” Fei Long clasped his long fingers together. He looked more bored than angry. 

“No, Laobhan. He would not have come across your name. He targets your competitors, and even they know nothing of you. You are safe,” Wan quickly assured the crime lord. 

“Still, it’s better to be safe than sorry. I don’t want Asami Ryuichi stumbling across the little rat. Take him out, Kurotsuchi. Make it quick, make it dirty. But it needs to be done tonight.”

The thin man bowed lowly. “Of course, Fei Long Laobhan.”

Fei Long leaned back in his chair. Dismantling Japan’s crime syndicates would take time, but the profits would be worth it. He just had to make sure that no one interfered. Especially Asami Ryuichi.

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys! Hope you liked it! This has been rolling around in my head for a little while now. There is second chapter coming if you thinks it’s interesting enough to continue! Have a great weekend and as usual, I own nothing but the situations.


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